UCS8   LIBRARY 


VERSES 


BY 

ISABELLA    HOWE    FISKE,    '96 


PRINTED   FOR  THE   BENEFIT  OF 

College  Er.&owment  furib 

Jl'NE,   IpOO 


COPYRIGHT,    IpOO, 

BY 
ISABELLA   HOWE   FISKE 


PRINTED   BY  FRANK   WOOD 
BOSTON 


BeMcatfon. 

TO  KATHARINE   LEE  BATES. 

To  you  the  flowers  whisper  as  you  pass; 

You  comrade  Nature.     How,  then,  shall  I  dare 
To  offer  one  who  gathers  blossoms  rare, 

My  little  handful  of  the  "smale  gras  ?  " 


Contents. 

PART  I. 

PAGE 

Recess 9 

The  Nursery 10 

Fairies  and  Brownies  .         .         .         .         .         .  n 

House-Cleaning 12 

My  Neighbor         .......  13 

Clouds 14 

Starlight 16 

Dream-Time           .         .         .         .         .         .         .  17 

The  China  Plate 18 

Memory          ........  19 

Neighbors 20 

Change 21 

"The  Kingdom  of  Heaven"        .        .        .        .  22 


PART  II. 

Falling  Leaves 25 

Speech 26 

Company 27 

My  Room 28 

My  Corridor          . 29 

Riches 30 

Song 31 

What  Did  You  Say?    .                 ....  32 

Seclusion .        .  33 

Pollen 34 

The  Saxifrage        .......  35 

The  Poplars 36 

Rest 37 

The  Last  Leaf,  I.  and  II 38 


Slumber  Song 
Nirvana  .... 
A  Little  Cloud  of  Night  . 
Meridian  .... 
Restraint  .... 
Evolution  .... 
Ownership  .... 
Requiem  .... 
Requiem  .... 
Nature  Repeats  Herself 
Resurrection 

Refrains  after  the  Roumanian 
Heaven  is  so  Far  Away 
Day  Dreams 

Spring 

Metamorphosis 
The  Highwayman 
The  Gardener 


PART   III. 

Sunset  on  the  Upper  Thames;  Point  Meadow    .  61 

A  Burne-Jones  Woman 62 

From  the  Train .63 

On  the  Rigi — Question         .....  64 

On  the  Rigi — Answer           .....  65 

A  Street  of  Sorrento    .         .         .         .         .         .  66 

On  the  Amalfi  Road 67 

The  Landslide  at  Amalfi 68 

In  Florence 69 

St.  John  the  Baptist 70 

Fra  Angelico         . 71 

Old  and  New 72 

The  Arno 73 

An  Andrea  Del  Sarto  Madonna          ...  74 

Dante 75 

Two  Painters         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  76 

The  Artist  in  Italy       ....  -78 


PART  I. 

CHILD  VERSES. 


Alma  Mater,  just  to-day, 

May  my  children  with  yours  play  ? 


W 


IRecess. 

HEN  the  winds  are  out  a-romping, 
And  the  leaves  play  butterfly, 

When  'tis  after-school  in  Nature, 
Let  us  wander,  you  and  I, 

Hand  in  hand,  as  children  love  to, 
To  the  land  men  name  the  sky. 

With  the  cloud-folk  we  can  visit, 
Of  their  chariot  make  our  car, 

Dressed  in  colors  like  the  sunset ; 
And  if  we  should  stray  so  far 

That  the  lights  come  out  to  call  us, 
Drop  down  on  some  shooting  star. 


T  TPSTAIRS  in  the  pine-boughs, 
^-'        Where  the  cradles  sway, 
Little  birds  are  sleeping, — 

Mother  bird's  away ; 
Careful  breezes  rock  them 

Busily,  all  day. 


Dairies  anfc  Brownies. 

ONE  fairy  came  to  town 
On  a  thistle-down ; 
Another  on  a  sky-lark's  song 

Came  dropping  down ; 
And  one  a  sunbeam  slid  along, — 
That's  how  he  got  so  brown  ! 


T 


HE  rain's  a  tidy  parlor-maid ; 
She  dusts  with  care  each  separate  blade 
And  the  high  walls  of  the  skies. 
And  Mother  Nature,  too,  is  wise 
And  often  has  a  cleaning  day 
To  wash  the  dust  and  dirt  away. 
On  the  carpets  of  the  fields 
Well  her  broom  of  storms  she  wields ; 
On  her  furniture  of  trees 
The  feather- duster  of  the  breeze. 
Then  she's  ready,  when  that's  done, 
For  her  company,  the  sun. 


12 


TReigbbor. 

MY  dear  friend,  Nature's  lady, 
Peeps  through  my  window-pane, 
And  glancing  in,  she  finds  me  there 
Sending  back  her  smiles  again. 

The  world  says  she's  a  mountain ; 

It  cannot  understand. 
I  know,  for  I  have  talked  with  her, 

That  she's  a  lady  grand. 

She  dresses  with  the  climate, 
And  when  the  skies  are  blue, 

Appears,  in  graceful  partnership, 
In  the  same  celestial  hue. 

On  smiling  days  she's  with  me ; 

But  when  the  weather's  gray, 
She  dons  her  mackintosh  of  mist 

And  vanishes  away  ! 


Clouds. 


HT  HERE'S  a  little  man  in  the  clouds  to-night, 
And  he  looks  down  at  me. 

0  little  man  in  the  sky  so  bright, 

With  you  I  long  to  be  ! 

1  hear  him  cry  as  he  sails  by 

In  the  moonlight  overhead, 
Don't  you  wish  that  you  were  a  cloud-man,  too, 
And  needn't  go  to  bed? 


ii. 

In  all  the  clouds  the  livelong  day, 
A  hundred  little  goblins  play, 
And  scamper  straight  across  the  sky ; 
I  like  to  watch  them  scurry  by. 

They  take  all  shapes  the  heart  could  wish, 
Every  kind  of  beast  and  fish. 
With  some  of  them  I'd  like  to  play, 
But  from  the  rest  I'd  run  away  ! 


III. 

All  the  fleecy  clouds  one  sees, 
Mother  says  she  does  not  know 
Where  they  come  from,  where  they  go, 

Moving  in  the  sun  and  breeze, 
In  those  blue  fields  far  away ; 
But  a  fairy  told  me  they 

Are  the  souls  of  apple-trees 
Just  in  blossom,  white  as  snow ; 
And  a  fairy  ought  to  know  ! 


IV. 

A  great  show-window  is  the  sky, 

Where  the  angels  go  to  buy 

All  their  plumed  hats,  white  and  gray, 

And  their  robes  that  trail  and  sway 

When  they  float  amid  the  blue, 

As  the  angels  love  to  do  ! 


Starltgbt. 

i 

WHEN  Dusk  presumes  to  follow 
The  footsteps  of  the  Day, 
He  sets  the  blades  a-shiver 
Where  late  her  warm  tread  lay. 

The  flowers  forget  to  blossom, 
The  breezes  hush  their  play, 

A  star  peeps  round  the  corner 
And  wishes  him  away. 


All  the  little  children  dear 

In  this  planet,  far  and  near, 

Must  put  their  playthings  out  of  sight, 

And  go  to  bed,  when  it  is  night. 

But  little  children  in  the  sky 
Like  to  have  the  night  come  by, 
For  they  can  then  go  out  and  play, 
Just  as  we  children  do  by  day. 

You  don't  believe  that  it  is  true  ? 
Then  you  must  watch  them  as  I  do. 
Every  night  I  see  them  play 
All  along  the  Milky  Way. 

16 


BreanWCtme. 

;VERY  night-time,  just  at  ten, 
When  the  lamp  is  burning  low, 
My  mamma  comes  up  to  bed. 
I  like  to  lie  and  watch  her  then, 
For  'tis  such  fun  to  wake  again, — 
Although  my  prayers  have  long  been  said,- 
Just  for  company,  you  know. 

Her  arms  look  very  white  and  fair 
By  the  lamp  before  the  glass, 
And  she  moves  them  to  and  fro 
As  she  stands  and  braids  her  hair. 
All  the  shadows  gather  there 
On  the  wall,  and  come  and  go, 
And  the  sleepy  minutes  pass. 

I  wonder  why,  when  she's  so  small, 
Her  shadow  is  so  big  and  gray ; 
I  see  it  when  I  shut  my  eyes ; 
It  blunders  over  all  the  wall, 
And  does  not  look  like  her  at  all. 
I  wonder  why  she  sometimes  cries 
Until  I  kiss  the  tears  away. 


c 


ZTbe  Cbina  plate. 

OULD  I  unlock  the  garden  gate 
Upon  the  old  blue  china  plate 
That  is  the  best  of  all  my  toys, 
I'd  be  the  happiest  of  boys  ! 

In  all  things  there  my  eyes  delight, — 
The  curly  clouds  are  blue  and  white. 
And  on  the  grass  the  waving  trees 
Invite  my  footsteps  where  I  please. 

And  up  the  path  a  lady  goes — 
Stopping  meanwhile  to  pick  a  rose — 
To  the  old  mansion  on  the  hill, 
That  shows  within  the  water  still. 

Two  boys  sit  on  the  bank.     I  wish 
That  I  could  show  them  how  to  fish. 
They  do  not  seem  to  know  the  way, 
And  I've  no  one  with  whom  to  play. 


18 


T 


HE  pillared  house  stands  tall  and  straight, 
And  narrow  paths  within  the  gate 
Lead  where  the  noisy  knocker  calls 
Its  echoing  summons  through  the  halls. 

About  the  flower- plots  trim  and  square 
I  see  a  child  run  here  and  there, 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  hedge  of  box, 
And  quite  too  short  for  hollyhocks. 

Then  to  the  brook  and  poplars  tall, 
The  other  side  the  garden-wall, 
And  all  the  wealth  that  pastures  hold, 
For  such  as  delve  in  Nature's  gold. 

Till,  wearied  of  the  farmyard  store, 
Laughing  he  seeks  the  open  door, 
Where  kindly  faces  watch  and  smile, 
And  many  indoor  hours  beguile. 

And  as  I  look,  I  can  but  know 
I  am  the  child  of  long  ago, 
Whose  memory  still  its  way  unlocks 
Into  the  garden  sweet  with  box. 


HILDREN  at  play  from  houses  near  at  hand  ; 
The  hours  sped,  laughter-winged,  our  child- 
hood through; 
Among  the  oft-trod  haunts  of  wonderland 

We  watched  the  magic  scenes  that  fancy  drew, 
Till  future  years  were  ours  but  to  command. 
And  I  was  glad,  for,  though  a  child,  I  knew 
It  was  a  happy  thing  to  neighbor  you 
The  while  our  play  a  golden  future  planned. 

I  heard  you  sing  to-day,  and  saw  once  more 
Two  girls  at  play,  in  old-time  careless  ways, — 

Two  children,  pledging  faith  forever  more. 

And  though  your  lot  has  brought  you  fame  and 
praise, 

And  things  yet  brighter  than  our  dreams  of  yore, 
To  dim  the  memory  of  those  other  days, 
I  know,  though  years  and  cities  part  our  ways, 

Our  hearts  are  neighbors  yet,  as  heretofore. 


20 


Cbanae. 

THE  shadows  of  the  past  are  there 
In  Mary's  eyes, — 
Blue,  paling  shadows  on  a  slope  of  snow 

Where  sunshine  lies 
And  takes  soft  sky-hues  unaware. 
The  shadows  of  the  future  years 
Shake  into  light  through  unsought  tears. 
Can  youth  and  sweetness  loveless  go  ? 
So  love-light  flashes 
Through  darkling  lashes, 
And  the  girl's  are  woman's  eyes. 

The  years  have  wrought  a  deeper  shade 

In  Mary's  eyes ; 
The  tread  of  time  has  left  its  trace 

In  sorrow's  wise ; 
Yet  is  their  watching  unafraid, 
For  love  and  life  together  stray, 
And  strength  takes  still  the  laughter-way, 
Pausing  before  a  woman's  face 
Where  faith  still  flashes 
Through  steadfast  lashes, 
And  the  girl's  are  the  woman's  eyes. 


"ZTbe  IRinofcom  of  Ibeaven/' 

(A  PAINTING  BY  CHARLES  SIMS      ROYAL  ACADEMY, 

1899.) 

A  FLOOD  of  opal  sunlight  over  flower  and  field 
and  tree, 

And  the  river  flowing  softly,  as  if  to  him  were  sweet 
To  hear  the  quick,  soft  footfall  of  unsteady  little 

feet, 

And  the  sound  of  children's  voices,  as   they  call 
aloud  in  glee. 

Here  colors  glow  that  elsewhere  can  only  fancy  see, 
And  here  the  dreams  of   children  they  may  as 

playmates  greet. 
Here  are  no  joys  forbidden,  while  hours  move 

still  and  fleet, 

And  tears  are  all  forgotten,  as  children's  tears  should 
be. 

There  shall  be  many  mansions,  yet  one   shall  be 

most  fair, 
The  play- ground  of  our  children.     Mayhap,  if  we 

be  wise, 
We   shall  leave   the   greater  places  to  breathe  its 

purer  air, 
For  a  golden  afternooning  of  each  daytime  in  the 

skies, 
And  become  as  little  children,  since  only  such  are 

there, 

Where  laughter  wields  the  sceptre,  and  childhood 
death  defies. 


PART  II. 

NATURE- VERSES  AND  SONGS. 


Mother  Nature,  be  it  late 
When  from  you  I  graduate  ! 


M 


Xeaves. 

AN  that  joys  and  man  that  grieves 
Searches  'midst  the  falling  leaves 

Of  the  tree  of  thought. 
And  amongst  such,  drifting  down, 
For  the  bright  and  for  the  brown, 

Have  I  sometimes  sought. 


O 


Speecb. 

FT  on  the  darkened  highway 

No  face  of  them  all  do  I  see 
That,  out  of  the  tumult  and  traffic, 

Sendeth  a  message  to  me  ; 
Yet  far  in  the  silent  country, 

Mayhap  no  leaf  on  the  tree 
But  filleth  the  morning  with  voices, 

And  calleth  aloud  to  me. 

There  are  sounds  that  the  ear  is  deaf  to, 

Smiles  that  no  eye  can  see ; 
Of  these  hath  the  heart  its  language, 

Whatever  man's  speech  may  be. 
Where  thou  canst  catch  its  accent 

Scarce  can  thy  wish  foresee, 
For  than  all  of  a  city's  clamor 

Louder  may  silence  be. 


26 


Company. 

UNDER  his  feet,  the  new  cool  of  the  grass ; 
And  overhead,  the  skies ; 
While  from  his  heart  the  long  years  haste  to  pass. — 

Who  could  be  old  or  wise 
Whom  the  stream's  chatter  calleth  to  so  much, 

Who  sees,  with  careful  eyes, 
The  oak's  pink  clusters  curl  within  his  touch, 
Softly,  in  baby- wise? 


IRoom. 


KEEN  and  silver  of  glimmering  birch 
Its  wind-stirred  portiere  ; 

Sun  and  shadow  weave  into  lace, 
As  I  watch  from  my  moss-upholstered  chair 

Where  hills  draw  into  the  open  space, 
And  boughs,  ajar  to  the  transient  perch 
Of  gossip  sparrows,  bar  human  search. 

Stolen  haunt  of  the  inner  me  ; 

Freedom-walled  from  the  hours  of  care, 
Built  with  a  better  workman's  stroke 
Into  my  dreams  than  can  waking  dare  : 

Beam  of  cedar  and  floor  of  oak 
Weaker  seem  than  the  light  birch-  tree 
That  has  my  soul  under  lock  and  key. 


28 


A 


Gorrtfcor. 

CORRIDOR  my  footsteps  know 
In  a  palace  set  where  rivers  flow, 

And  my  lord  the  afternoon 

Holds  his  jubilee  of  June. 

Its  frescoes  are  of  poplars  gray  ; 

Its  soft  larch-draperies  cling  and  sway ; 

Sounds  of  laughter  and  of  song 

Drift  its  sunlit  length  along 

From  the  banquet-halls  that  look  to  the  west. 

It  leads  the  weary  unto  rest, 

And  the  sober  unto  mirth, 

And  all  who  follow,  can  it  lead  from  earth. 


29 


IRicbes. 

YOUR  palace  neighbors  me,  and  day  by  day 
I  lean  and  watch  you  as  you  come  and  go  ; 
Your  menials  line  the  steps,  a  hireling  row 
That  scorn  me  on  my  unattended  way. 
Yet  have  I  servants,  more  than  I  can  tell, 
Who  ask  no  silver,  and  who  love  me  well. 

I  scarce  can  dream  what  wealth  your  coffers  hold, 
So  low  my  thatch,  so  high  your  palace  walls ; 
But  know  such  silver  lines  your  banquet  halls 

You  reck  not  of  my  hoard  of  autumn's  gold. 
Methinks  ofworser  metal  your  estate, 
My  fellow-fare  r  toward  the  outer  gate. 


SING  to  me  of  gold  and  red. 
{Swallow,  list,  a- fly  ing.} 
Who  has  taught  you,  maple  leaf, 
Thus  to  deck  and  gild  a  grief, 
Thus  to  sing  that  summer's  dead 
And  that  woods  are  dying  ? 

Slowly  sing  the  dirge  of  green. 

(  Winds,  come  hither  sighing.) 
Showers  of  gold  the  waters  know, 
Softly  falling  as  the  snow ; 
Crimson  paths,  tall  trunks  between, 
Autumn's  feet  are  trying. 


W 


Wbat 

HAT  did  you  say  to  me  ? 
I  did  not  understand 
If  the  questioning  word 
Were  the  hum  of  a  social  bee 
Near  at  hand, 

Or  a  voice  at  a  distance  heard  ; 
For  man  and  beast  are  kin  to-day 
In  the  one  speech  of  May. 


W 


Seclusion. 

KITE  Alpine  heights  cloud-veil  their  eyes 

From  the  folk-world  below ; 
Heeding  naught  less  than  day's  sunrise 

That  floods  with  rosy  glow 
Their  uneventful  paradise 

Where  only  violets  grow. 
Would  J,  too,  might  shun  life's  surprise, 

And  haste,  as  valleys  low  ; 
Would  that  my  soul  might,  Alpine-wise, 

Win  lethargies  of  snow  / 


33 


pollen. 

D  RIGHT  in  your  uniform  set  with  gold, 
*— '  Your  wings  unfold, 

Messenger  bee, 

And  carry  my  sweetheart  a  message  from  me 

Fly  far  and  low 

Till  her  face  you  know, 

Fairer  than  other  flowers  to  see. 

She  will  take  with  her  fingers  fair 

The  words  of  love  that  I  dare, 

And  hide  them  in  her  breast  of  white. 

Yes,  she  will  read  aright 

All  my  desire. 

Brighter  and  faster  than  fire 

Carry  my  love  to  my  love  to-night. 


34 


Sajifraae. 

F\  BAREST,  thou  art  to  me,  the  first  to  dare 
*— '   The  winds  and  rocks  of  April  hillsides,  where 
Thou  to  the  sunshine  gainest  brave  access. 
A  young  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness, 
Thou  to  prepare  the  way  of  spring  art  sent. 
The  first  lone  star  in  all  the  firmament 
Of  earth,  that  soon  shall  show  its  Milky  Way 
Of  thick-set  blossoms,  wondrous  fair  in  May. 


35 


ZTfoe  poplars. 

O  WINDS,  my  winds  in   the   poplars,  ye   are 
lords  of  my  soul  to-day. 
I  have   heard   your  call   from   the   tree-tops,  and 

watching  their  branches  sway, 
My  spirit  bends  and  answers,  and  is  lost  in  you, 
even  as  they. 

Your  servants  don  their  silver.     I  hear  their  voices 

cry 
As  they  whiten  and  waver  before  you,  while   the 

trail  of  your  robes  sweeps  by, 
And  I  hear  the  sound  of  going,  and  know  that  the 

Lord  is  nigh. 


ONLY  the  stir  of  leaves,  and  the  silent  sweep  of 
sky; 

Clover-tips  aware  of  the  breeze  that  passes  by ; 

Somewhere  off  in  the  blue  a  hidden  thrush  sings 
loud ; 

A  long  green  slope  of  grass,  and  above  the  hill  a 
cloud, — 

Summer  sights  that  the  schoolboy  whistles  unheed- 
ing past ; 

Summer  sounds  that  sing  me  release  from  the  world 
at  last. 


37 


Ube  Xast  Xeaf. 


WOULD  not  the  heavens  were  so  blue 
When  the  skies  of  my  heart  are  but  gray ; 
I  am  mocked  by  the  verdure  of  May, 

For  my  summer  is  over  and  through. 

The  winds  of  November  I  hear. 

How  sing  ye,  "  Tis  Spring  of  the  Year  ?  " 


Have  I  weathered  the  winter  storms 

Only  to  fall  in  May? 
'Twere  better  have  joined  the  golden  forms 

Where  my  dying  comrades  lay, 
Than  to  see  how  the  spring  the  world  transforms, 

And  be  cast  by  the  winds  away. 


Slumber  Song. 

A  H,  hush,  my  child ;  the  curfew  bell  is  ringing 
**•     The  hour  when  sleep  were  best. 
Across  the  sky  the  homing  clouds  are  winging, 

And  darkness  nears  the  west. 
Then  sleep,  my  child,  while  all  the  woods  are  singing 

The  restless  day  to  rest. 


39 


w 


Wiwana. 

AIF  of  cloud  amid  the  blue, 
At  its  passing,  like  to  you 

Would  my  soul  be  ;  heaven  fain, 
Azure  still  and  sun-alight, 
Resting,  garmented  in  white, 

Unaware  of  joy  or  pain. 

Island  in  the  aether  sea, 
As  your  white  forgets  to  be, 

Sun-dissolved  and  zenith-drowned, 
So  my  soul  would  leave  below 
Sense  and  self,  and  cease,  cloud-slow, 

Into  God's  steadfast  profound. 


40 


H  Xittle  Glouo  of  IRigbt. 

ONCE  on  a  time  a  little  cloud  of  night 
Lay  dying,  and  I  heard  it  cry  : 
"  Oh,  the  great  darkness  round  me!     Mother  Sky, 
Bid  the  white  moon  but  touch  me  with  her  light, 
Lest  thy  child  waste  and  die" 

Paler  and  weaker  grew  the  fainting  face, 

And  slower  through  the  night  its  whispered  breath ; 

Then  seemed  the  sky  to  brood  and  night  to  trace 

Upon  her  shadowed  brow  new  rifts  of  care, 

While  as  a  mother  does,  she  waited  death, 

Of  aught  but  pain  and  parting  unaware. 

Then  slowly  on  the  moon  its  presence  drew 
And  covered  with  its  light  the  waning  cloud, 
Till  with  the  touch  a  sudden  soft  wind  blew, 
And  through  the  silence  sobbed  the  sky  aloud. 
But  when  the  moon  had  passed  the  watcher  knew 
Its  rays'  white  folds  had  found  her  child  a  shroud. 


/IDeriDian. 

UN-PASSIONATE  am  I, 
'   Rose-lit  with  fires 
That  glow  at  morn  and  eve, 
And  bid  my  soul  believe 
Divine  uncertainties  and  dim  desires ; 
Destined  to  die 

With  every  nightfall,  and  to  be  reborn 
With  each  new  morn. 

Love-passionate  am  I, 

Dream-hearted  still, 

Of  joyance  and  of  pain, 

Of  death  and  living  fain, 

So  my  heart  reach  its  vision-haunted  hill 

Whose  heights  descry 

Man's  dwellings,  animate  with  smiles  and  tears, 

With  hopes  and  fears. 

God-passionate  am  I, 

Self-urged  from  earth 

Unto  a  thrice-stilled  place, 

Wherein  a  moment's  space 

Sets  the  soul  free  from  fear  of  after-dearth, 

Though  night  draw  nigh, 

Because  the  glory  of  the  after-glow 

Dwells,  sunset-slow. 


42 


•Restraint. 

HEAR  you  praise  the  reds  and  golds 

Across  the  sunset  sky  to-day, 
That  all  its  beauty  wide  unfolds 

In  sudden  clamor — yet  I  say 

Mine  be  the  gray, 
That  passionately  holds  within  its  breast 

And  will  not  let  them  free 
All  the  flashing  rest, 

Such  as  men  hush  to  see. — 
Ah,  if  for  tragedy  or  pain, 

Or  if  for  joy  intense  your  quest, 

Look  not  to  the  east  or  west. 
I,  whose  searching  is  not  vain, 

Face  the  north  with  clouds  oppressed ; 
I,  who  judge  of  color,  say 
Mine  be  the  gray  ! 


43 


0 


Evolution. 

UT  of  the  greater 

God  granteth  the  less  ; 
Out  of  life-tenure, 

The  mother's  caress ; 

Out  of  soul's  marriage, 
The  bodily  birth ; 

Out  of  wo  rid- chaos, 
The  greenness  of  earth 

Out  of  the  sunshine 
The  daffodils  grew ; 

Out  of  love's  rapture, 
All  radiant — you  ! 


44 


©wnersbip. 

HOULD  you  offer  the  sea 
1  With  its  sunlit  blue, 
What  were  that  to  me  ? 
Let  the  sea  be  thine  ! 
Since  I  hold  in  fee, 
Lovelit  and  true, 
Her  eyes  that  shine, 
I  would  answer  you 
That  all  blue  is  mine. 


45 


•Requiem. 

A I  7HO  would  know, 
*  *     Though  he  were  wise, 
A  bit  of  soil  could  go  so  deep  ? 
Or  that  beneath  the  earth  one  might  grope  to 

the  skies 
So  as  by  sleep  ? 
Yet  death  can  show 
How  impotent  is  life 
Itself  to  leave  earth  or  hold  others  there, 
Whate'er  its  strife ; 

And  how  each  soul  the  other's  lot  would  share, 
Whether  it  be  to  linger  or  to  go. 


46 


TRequiem. 

LEAVE  me — alone  in  the  chamber  of  sleep. 
Why  fears  the  body  its  fostering  mould  ? 
Lavish  above  me  the  crocuses  heap 

Nature's  unsinned-for,  unperished-for  gold. 
Up  from  my  fingers  shall  violets  creep, 

Sweet  and  life-breathing  and  gentle  to  hold. 

There  in  the   March-world  the  cold  winds  blow 
shrill ; 

Better  is  darkness,  and  silence  is  sweet. 
Ye  that  are  leaving  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

Think  not  I  envy  the  tread  of  your  feet ; 
I,  too,  have  trodden,  and  now  would  lie  still, — 

I  with  low  laughter  your  weeping  would  greet. 

Here  in  my  dreaming  at  last  I  awake  ; 

Who  in  my  rest  am  not  vexed  with  you-r  care ; 
I  after  slumber  shall  watch  the  morn  break  ; 

Pray,  ye  that  toil  still,  such  sleeping  to  share. 
Welcome  your  weariness,  sent  for  the  sake 

Of  this  else-lost  rest,  of  daisies  aware. 


47 


IRature  IRepeats  Tfoerselt 

T  T  ERE  and  there  a  new-found  scene 
•*•  1   Speaks  to  us  with  childhood's  mien; 
Here  and  there  a  face  we  near 
Smiles  to  us  of  one  more  dear ; 
Here  and  there,  when  faith's  astir, 
Earth  of  Heaven  is  harbinger. 


48 


Resurrection. 

TO  be  wakened  by  birds  that  sing 
In  the  sunrise  hours  of  May, 
To  welcome  the  vanishing 

Of  the  troubles  of  yesterday, 
And  the  vigor  that  noon  will  bring 

Now  that  slumber  has  passed  away,- 
To  smile  with  surprise  at  awakening 
After  earth  to  another  day. 


49 


TRefrains. 

(AFTER  THE  ROUMANIAN.) 

I. 

HA  VE  so  loved  the  summer 
That  it  has  learned  my  sorrow  ; 
And  now  the  summer  returns 
And  waits  a  day  with  me. 

II. 

My  window  looks  on  the  waters. 
Where  the  free  winds  are  blowing', 
But  the  casement  will  not  open, 
And  there  are  bars  across  it. 

in. 

She  smiled  on  me.     Then  my  heart  answered  her, 
"  Smile  not  again,  I  pray,  but  rather  weep, 
For  that  would  be  less  sad" 

IV. 

Knowest  thou  what  the  night-winds  are  saying? 
"  The  years  are  many  and  stretch  onward, 
And  yet  the  years  are  passing" 

50 


H 


•fceaven  is  so  jfar 

(AFTER  THE  ROUMANIAN.) 

'EA  VEN  is  so  far  away, 

And  my  child  went  in  the  night-time.  • 

I  listen  at  the  open  door  and  say, 

His  little  feet  will  grow  so  tired, 

How  can  he  find  the  way  ? 

The  wind  is  high  and  all  the  dark  is  wet; 

The  storm  is  loud  and  he  will  be  afraid; 

What  if  my  child  should  ever  homeless  stray  ? 

Heaven  is  so  far  away.' 


o 


Dreams. 

F  the  time  when  he  shall  be  man 

Murmurs  the  child  on  my  knee ; 
When  I  sat  where  the  streamlet  ran, 

Its  talk  was  all  of  the  sea. 
The  lone  pine  sings  of  the  woods  that  sway, 

The  bird  in  its  cage  of  the  sky, 
And  of  thy  love  this  summer  day 

Whisper  my  heart  and  I. 


Spring. 

F  mine  were  choice  of  rapture,  I  would  be 
The  heart-beat  of  a  rose  in  ecstasy ; 
If  mine  were  slumber,  I  would  deem  as  best 
The  moonlit  dreaming  of  a  cloud  at  rest ; 
If  motion,  then  is  motion's  crown 
The  wind-unhastened  drifting  down 
Of  petals,  whitely  setting  sail 
From  apple-boughs,  of  anchor  frail ; 
If  mine  were  music,  it  would  be 
Mid  springtime's  first-sung  symphony ; 
If  color  mine,  prismatic  green, 
That  holds  the  rainbow  in  its  sheen ; 
If  mine  were  knowledge,  'twere  to  stay 
In  school  with  bobolinks  all  day  ; 
If  mine  were  heaven,  'twere  but  worth 
Spring  on  such  another  earth. 
What  hath  taught  this  all  to  me? 
May  and  fancy,  love  and  thee  ! 


53 


/iDetamorpbosts. 

SLIGHT-FIGURED,    leaf-crowned,  wandering 
alone, 

A  maiden  paused  beside  a  rippling  stream 
To  bathe  her  white  feet  in  the  waters'  gleam, 
Beside  whose  cool  banks  violets  had  grown, 
Seeming  a  thing  the  woods  might  rightly  own, 
So  kindred  to  them  did  her  coming  seem. 
Of  such  a  mistress  might  the  breezes  dream 
Made  for  caressing,  swaying  there,  wind-blown. 

Scarce  had  she  stooped,  when  Pan,  a-seeking  near 
For  one  more  Dryad,  some  new  woodland  tree, 

Started  to  see  the  object  of  his  search. 
Her  hands  set  fluttering  in  her  sudden  fear. — 
And  ever  since  above  the  waters'  glee 

Has  bent  the  maiden  drooping  of  the  birch. 


54 


T    HAVE  lips  that  woo  the  roses ;  I  have  ears  that 

court  the  song 

Of  the  apple-blooms  and  clovers  when  the  sol- 
dier-bee is  here, 
With  his  noisy  talk  and  bluster  such   as   is   to 

blossoms  dear. 

I  have  eyes  that  on  the  lilacs  linger  covertly  and  long. 
Set  your  briar-dogs  upon  me,  Mother  Nature,  lest 

I  wrong 
These  your  stately  moonlit  daughters ;  lo,  their 

whispering  knows  me  near. 
I  am  highwayman  of  roses ;  I  shall  pluck  them, 

though  they  fear, 

Yet  shall  I  treat  them  gently,  for  my  love  for  them 
is  strong. 

As  the  maidens  in  Greek  meadows  were  by  myth 

and  beauty  taught, 
It  were  better  to  be  god-sought  for  a  day  than 

loved  of  man. 
Were   he   prince   or  were   he    shepherd,   yet   his 

lifetime  were  as  naught 

By  a  Zeus,  with  all  his  fire-bolts,  or  but  music- 
making  Pan ; 
And  these  blossoms  know  'tis  better  to  be  loved 

as  mortals  can 

Than  by  kindred  neighbor  suitors  in  flower-wedlock 
to  be  sought. 

55 


Gardener. 

T    THAT   dig  in   the   garden, — busily   goes    my 

spade, — 

Keep  my  eyes  on  my  task ;  hour  after  hour  goes  by, 
Yet  when  you  pass  me,  my  lady,  clad  in  your  rich 

brocade, 
Like  some  brown,  winged  seedlings,  upward  my 

fancies  fly, 

Wondering  how  and  wherefore  God  hath  the  dif- 
ference made, — 
You,  the  land's  first  lady ;  only  a  gardener,  I. 

Bulbs  I  have  set  in  the  earth, — souls  are  earth-set, 

too; — 
Some  will  be  food  for  our  bodies,  formed  of  the 

vegetable  mould. 
This  I  have  carefully  planted  here  for  your  eyes  to 

view. 
One  day  shall  grow  the  lily,  stately  and  white 

and  cold, 
Yet  I  have  tended  both, — and  God  in  his  tending 

knew 

You,  the  young  fair  flower,  and  I,  who  am  with- 
ered and  old. 


What,  do  you  pause  in  passing?      Somehow  I  see 

your  soul. 
Now  I  look  up  from  my  garden,  and  overhead  I 

see 
The  sun   and  the  blue  as  you  do,  and  the  same 

white  clouds  that  roll ; 
We  are  warmed  by  the  self-same  sunshine,  shaded 

alike  by  the  tree. 
Ah  !  but  the  world  is  a  garden ;  God  hath  planted 

the  whole, 

Lily  and  common  earth-bulb  ;  you,  my  lady,  and 
me  ! 


57 


PART  III. 

ECHOES  FROM  OVER-SEA. 


Italy,  Madonna  mine, 

If  I,  too,  pause  at  thy  shrine  ? 


Sunset  on  tbe  Tapper  Ubames; 
point  /iDeaoow. 

THE  hour  waits  sunset  as  the  blind  wait  sight. 
Old  Oxford's  freehold, — where  the  centuries 

lie,— 
Low-domed  unbrokenly  by  cloud-scrolled  sky, 

Is  lonely,  wind-touched,  river-cool  to-night. 

Cloud- flames,  a-sudden,  sweep  the  ah*  with  light, 
And  deepen  as  they  rush,  unroaring,  by. 
My  heart,  aghast  at  color,  verily 

Watches,  fast  beating,  how  the  flames  grow  bright. 

A  rising  flock  of  white  doves  takes  the  glow, 
Self-offered  on  the  dead  day's  funeral  pyres ; 

Broad,  level  light,  rose-tinged,  winds  river-slow 
About  the  willows  ;  and  the  distant  spires 

Of  Oxford  answer  to  the  west,  where  low 
Burn  the  red  embers  that  have  set  the  fires. 


61 


H  3Burne*3ones'  TKHoman. 

\17HETHER  thou  art  Madonna,  stayed  by  an 
*  *  angel  guest, 

Or  a  maiden  dreaming  idly,  'mid  summer  flowers 

astray, 

One  is  the  face  and  figure,  whether  joy  or  sad- 
ness may 
Fall  on  the  work  of  the  painter,  that  his  mood  be 

made  manifest. 
In  thine  eyes  he  has  written  clearly  the  creed  of 

an  unchanged  quest, 
To  seek  for  the  best  alone,  and  for  the  rest  to 

pray 
That  the  world  find  on  his  canvas  the  grace  of 

an  earlier  day, 

And  that  thou,  unknown  and  younger,  be  sister  yet 
to  the  best. 

So    hast    thou   been ;    the   maiden    hath   caught 

Madonna's  grace, 
And  the  mother  of  Christ  hath  drawn  for  her 

woman's  eyes  more  near. 

So  is  it  thou,  though  silent,  hast  won  thyself  a  place 
In  the  heart  of  whom  aforetime  have  held  but 

those  days  dear, 
When  art  was  young  in  Florence,  and  deemed  but 

strange  the  face 
Of  this  far  younger  land  and  later  year. 

62 


jfrom  tbe  Urain. 

A    HANDFUL    of  steep  red    roofs    that    the 
traveler  on  the  train 
Sees  flash  through  the  smoke  to  a  town,  and  back 

into  smoke  again ; 

Clustered  gables  that  rise,  set  close  'neath  a  spire 
on  the  plain. 

A  handful  of  simple  souls  that  re-wake  each  dawn 

of  day 
To  the  reaping  of  fields  that  wave,  to  the  care  of 

the  child  at  play, 
And  to  sup  when  the  dusk  is  nigh,  and  the  Angelus 

rings  to  pray. 

Little  ye  know  of  life,  whose  ways  are  of  times  far 

past. 
Idly  revolves   your  glass,  while  the  sands  of  our 

cities  run  fast ; 
Yet  do  ye  work,  and  love,  and  sin,  and  die  at  the 

last. 

Already  half  forgot,  ere  the  shriek  of  the  train  is 

still, 
Yet,  perchance  in  the  day  of  God,  men  shall  know 

ye  have  kept  His  will, 
And  the  town  of  the  plain  shall  be  as  a  city  set  on 

a  hill. 

63 


©n  tbe  1Ri0t— (Question. 

\I  7HAT   thinks   your  silence   of    me,   as   your 
*  *  glimpse  of  life,  the  train, 

Climbs  slowly,  noisily  past  you,  and  you  stand 

a-gaze  at  me? 
Folk   of  the   snows,   mountain-dwellers,  am   I, 

then,  so  strange  to  see? 
'Tis  you  are  as  dreams  and  shadows  and  a  fancy  in 

my  brain, 
And  I  doubt  not  you  will  vanish  ere  the  low  sun 

sets  again ; 
Brown   roofs   gathered   together,  washed   by   a 

cloudy  sea, 
Snows  and  the  mountain  torrent,  and  the  sighing 

green  of  the  tree  : 
Shall  I  seek  you,  all-bewildered,  and  find  for  the 

hills  a  plain  ? 
Your  speech   is  wordless  to  me,  and  your   life  is 

strange  no  less, 

Yet  have   you  spoken  to  me  clearer  than   lan- 
guage can ; 
And  though  I  haste,  for  there  beckon  scenes  that 

you  cannot  guess, 
In  a  city  too  far  away  for  your  highest  snows 

to  discern, 
Yet  oft  from  its  tumult,  I  know,  shall  my  heart 

to  your  distance  turn, 

For  somewhat  out  of  your  silence  hath  uttered 
the  language  of  man. 

64 


©n  tbe  1Rioi— Hnswer* 

YE  who  would  visit  my  mountains,  as  your  eyes 
have  seen,  fain  would  I  see. 
Ye  who  have  trod  city  pavements,  I,  too,  would 

hear  bustle  of  feet. 
To  me,  bred  in  snows  and  in  silence,  the  clamor 

of  voices  is  sweet, 

Yet  must  I  die  on  my  hillside ;  what  kens  the  city 
of  me? 

I,  who  drive  the  goats  early  to  pasture,  and  sleep 

ere  the  twilight  is  near, 
With  the  rush  of  the  stream  for  a  curfew,  its  call 

in  my  ears  as  I  rise, 
Is  it   strange,  after   years   of  its  uproar,  men's 

voices  I  long  for  and  prize, 

With  the  love  in  them,  hate  in  them,  mayhap ;  yet 
man's  none  the  less,  therefore  dear? 

Your  speech  is  wordless  to  me,  and  your  life   is 

strange  no  less, 
Yet  have  you  spoken  to  me  clearer  than  language 

can; 
And  though  you  haste,  for  there  beckon  scenes  that 

I  cannot  guess, 
In  the  cities  too  far  away  for  my  highest  snows 

to  discern, 
Yet  to  your  world  beyond  me   my  dreaming 

shall  of  ten  turn, 

For  somewhat  out  of  your  passing  hath  uttered 
the  language  of  man. 

65 


H  Street  of  Sorrento. 

:HAVE  halted  impetuous  feet 
For  a  traveler's  curious  stay ; 
I  have  turned,  nothing  sated,  away 
From  the  whitely-paved,  casement-lined  street, 
Where  the  passing  of  flower-girls  is  sweet, 
And  the  shadows  and  sun  are  at  play, 
Pausing  only  as  wanderers  may, 
For  the  mark  on  the  dial  is  fleet. 

From  afar  I  have  thought  oftenwhiles 

Of  these  byways  where  footsteps  are  slow  ; 
Of  the  sun  and  the  shadows  that  go 

Over  scenes  that  the  painter  beguiles  ; 

Of  the  leisure  that  sunnily  smiles, 

And  that  trade  with  its  haste  cannot  know. 


66 


©n  tbe  Hmalff  IRoafc. 

LONG  curves  of  foam-bound  blue  that  shameth 
blue, 

Where  rocks  look  out  upon  a  west  of  sea ; 
Above  there  winds,  and  else  were  nature  free ; 
Trade's  chain  of  white  road  that  enslaves  here,  too. 
Down  by  the  sands,  half  hid  from  passer's  view, 
Rough  fisher-folk  do  battle  with  the  sea, 
And  win  therefrom  what  seemeth  scarce  to  be 
Enough  to  keep  men  brave  or  women  true. 

Above  there  go,  you  who  seek  rest  and  peace, 
To  leave  the  world's  noise  for  a  while  behind  ; 
To  you  these  are  a  picture  of  the  mind, 

Not  men,  indeed,  who  crave  like  you,  release 
From  toil  and  care,  yet  dream  not  such  to  find, 

Nor  heed  your  passing,  while  your  echoes  cease. 


67 


Ube  Xanfcslifce  at  Hmalflu 

(DECEMBER,  1899.) 

O  many  years  the  monks  their  cloister  paced 
Above  the  sea  that  white  Amalfi  faced, 
And  judged  them  owners  of  the  sea  and  air, 
Not  failing  to  thank  Heaven  for  their  due  share. 
Meanwhile  the  sea  in  jealous  hate  grimaced, 

And   gnashed   white   teeth   in   hatred    of   their 

prayer. 

Meanwhile  the  years  past,  and  all  Nature  graced 
Far-famed  Amalfi,  fairest  of  the  fair. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  sea  lay  and  smiled, 
As  a  dark-cowled  procession  sadly  filed 

From  the  old  walls,  sent  forth  by  law's  mandate, 

Because  past  power,  self-deemed  inviolate, 
Was  forfeit,  and  the  over-proud,  exiled  ; 

Twice-heavy  is  misfortune  to  the  great. 
Yet  scarce  by  this  was  the  sea  reconciled, 

But  well  the  years  had  taught  it  how  to  wait. 

Once  in  the  centuries  has  the  sea  its  day, 
And  so,  long  past,  it  wrecked  Amalfi 's  sway ; 

And  so  again — the  echoes  scarce  are  still — 

It  leaped  up,  pitiless,  to  wreak  its  will 
Upon  its  foes'  old  home,  its  long-sought  prey, — 

Grotto  and  cloister  and  fair,  vine-decked  hill, — 
That  went,  wave-charmed,  a  rock-torn,  shuddering 
way  : 

So  seas  their  vows  of  vengeance  can  fulfill. 

68 


flu  jflorence. 

MY  dreams  take  vestiture  of  gates  and  tower 
To-day,  at  last,  'neath  Brunelleschi's  dome, 
Madonna'd  by  St.  Mary  of  the  Flower, 

Exile  is  over,  and  my  heart  come  home. 
Canvas  and  marble  dim  not  as  elsewhere, 
And  master  spirits  brood  o'er  bridge  and  square. 

A  city  many-memoried,  wherein  of  old 
In  angeled  cell  a  monk  prayed  over  long 

An  old,  rare  volume,  Arno-bound  in  gold, 
With  Dante's  love  the  frontispiece  to  song ; 

The  world's  best  folio,  warm  yet  from  the  hand 

Of  Andrea  and  Angelo  and  Alessandr'. 


69 


St.  Sobn  tbe  Baptist. 

A I  7HO  paints  Madonnas  painteth  women  still : 
*  *       Let  him  beware  lest  who  his  canvas  scan 
See  there  a  woman  only ;  one  who  can 
Love  and  be  loved — no  more — at  human  will. 

Who  painteth  Christ  can  scarce  do  else  than  ill, 
Or  show,  despite  the  greatness  of  his  plan, 
By  some  strange  failure,  rather  less  than  man, 

Though  in  all  else  unbaffled  were  his  skill. 

Who  paints  St.  John  hath  ever  kept  him.  pure, 
For  careless  or  for  steadfast  eyes  to  see, — 

Mayhap  just  God  enough  in  him  made  sure 

That  art  should  answer  to  his  beckoning  hand ; 

Just  man  enough  that  man  might  understand 
What  the  forerunner  of  a  Christ  could  be  ! 


70 


jfra  Enoelico. 

CLUSTERING  haloed  figures,  all  intent 
On  sounds  wherein  they  may  His  name  adore 
In  all  the  curious  ways  of  music-lore 
On  many  a  mediaeval  instrument. 
Such  wealth  of"  hues  was  ne'er  so  richly  blent, 
Nor  e'er  by  artist  half  conceived  before, 
As  these  of  golden  Arno's  sunset  shore, 
And  Florentine  old  noontides  eloquent. 

From  a  past  faith,  where  aught  but  gloom  was  sin, 
Come  these,  ashine,  to  scatter  darkness  quite 
Across  the  future's  doubt  lest  right  be  right ; 

Flash  gold  and  crimson,  like  the  sun  let  in 

Through    high    choir    windows    on    cathedral 
night,— 

Like  Indian  summers  after  frosts  begin. 


anfc  IRevv. 

'"TO  fight  and  conquer  sin,  Apostle-wise ; 

To  die  a  death  of  shame,  yet  hold  faith  fast, 
Nor  fear   the   pain   that   freed   them   centuries 

past,— 

These  were  the  martyrs,  winners  of  the  prize. 
For  them  an  unthought  fame  did  art  devise  : 
Their   heads    gold-circled ;    stationed   on   each 

hand 

About  Madonna  and  the  Son  they  stand, 
Bending  in  awe,  and  in  a  saint's  surprise. 

We  pause  amazed  before  such  deeds  to-day, 
Nor  deem  that  such  as  they  be  with  us  yet, 
And  say  faith  died  while  still  the  paints  were  wet 

Upon  the  canvas,  timeworn  now  and  gray. 

Meanwhile  God  sends  upon  a  silent  way 
Unhaloed  saints,  whom  after  years  forget. 


A 


Hrno. 


S  a  monk  within  his  cell 

Waits  till  chimes,  at  sunset  pealing, 
Ring  his  freedom,  find  him  kneeling 

Rapt  before  the  Raphael  ; 

There,  a  sunset  sentinel, 

Where  the  western  sunbeams  stealing, 
All  the  great  stained  glass  revealing, 

Have  not  failed  to  love  him  well,  — 

So  have  I  the  Arno  waited, 

Leave  to  face  my  shrine,  the  West, 
While  its  glory,  crimson-sated, 

Burns  a  gleam  upon  my  breast, 
Kneeling  as  a  monk,  breath-bated, 

At  the  sunset's  glow  —  God's  best. 


73 


Hn  Hnfcrea  Del  Sarto  /iDafconna. 


RANT  me  the  old  life  that  I  knew  before. 

I  would  no  more,  alas  !  Madonna  be, 
Could  I  but  know  the  child  upon  my  knee 
Had  such  as  other  children  have  in  store  ; 
Young  Hebrew  manhood,  skilled  in  priestly  lore, 
Or  peaceful  age,  though  of  less  proud  degree  ; 
Then  would  I  fear  no  future's  mystery, 
And  mothers  wait  Messiah  as  of  yore. 

I  look  adown  the  widening  of  the  years, 

And  by  their  blinding  light  mine  eyes  are  dim, 

The  while  my  heart  starts  from  the  sight  afraid. 
All  the  world's  needs,  and  the  world's  unshed  tears 
I  fain  would  shut  from  pitying  ken  of  Him 
Who  has  himself  its  Lord  and  captive  made. 


74 


H>ante. 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?    Twice  the  magic  seven, 
Quick-throbbing  heart-beats  that  to  Dante's 

ear 

Cried,  "  Hush,  the  world  stops  !  Beatrice  is  near 
To  guide  you  up  to  fame  and  love  and  Heaven  !  " 
What  is  a  sonnet?     'Tis  the  dial  frame 

Whereon  the  sun  of  love  the  shade  has  thrown 

Of  a  white  profile,  laurel-wreathed,  and  shown 

On  love's  long  day,  its  high-noon,  Dante's  name. 

Who  now  to  fashion  sonnets,  would  be  bold? 
And  who  that  whisper  loving,  each  to  each, 

Can  dream  a  purer  passion  could  befall 
Than  Dante's  dream,  to  the  world's  waking  told, 
And  since  love  still  finds  in  them  sweetest  speech, 
They  do  but  mirror  Dante,  after  all. 


75 


painters. 

TWO  painters  once,  when  Italy  was  young, 
Lived,  one  in  palace  walls,  his  praises  sung 
By  rich  and  great  about  him.     Other  quite 
Was  the  poor  monk's  celled  life,  and  yet  one  night, 
Worn  with  self-torture,  faint  from  lack  of  food, 
'Tis  said  Christ  smiled  on  him  from  the  cell's  rood. 

To  these  at  rest  the  self-same  night,  a  dream 
Flashed  on  the  dark  of  sleep  its  lightning  gleam. 
"  Go  show  the  Father  to  mankind.     Awake  !  " 

The  one  arose,  scarce  waiting  food  to  take. 

"  'Twill  be   the  world's   best   picture, — mine   the 

praise  ; — 
I  only  have  been  chosen  to  reveal  God's  face  !  " 

Long  days  he  toiled,  till  his  high  palace  wall 
Bore  Moses,  Zeus,  perhaps — scarce  God  at  all ; 
But  eager  crowds,  that  came  with  servile  speed, 
Bidden  from  feasting,  cried,  "  'Tis  God  indeed  ! 
By  the  great  master — lo,  his  name  is  there  !  " 

The  other  bent  in  prayer. 

"  Let  not  Thy  servant  dare  this  task  ; 

To  paint  the  angel  at  Thy  feet  I  ask." 

76 


The  while  he  toiled,  years  past. 

They  buried  him,  'tis  said,  at  last, 

When  the  great  picture's  glow  was  scarcely  dry, 

And  the  poor  wept  as  the  slow  monks  wound  by, 

Bearing  him  graveward.     But  the  world  forgot 

His  name,  and  later  centuries  know  it  not. 

Thou  who   hast   shown   God's  angel   hast   shown 

God's  self  supreme, 

And  hast  alone  divined  the  message  of  the  dream. 
What  couldst  thou  more  ?    Thou  hast  taught  men 

to  pray. 

They  who  before  thy  angel  pause  to-day 
Are  thousands,  who  through  the  St.  Michael's  eyes 
See  God  themselves.     Thine  be  the  better  prize. 


77 


Hvtist  in 

T   AM  the  well-born  artist ;  models,  ye  knock  at 

my  door. 

Arno- reflected  bridges,  twilights  of  Italy, 
Indoor  sunsets  aflame  on  a  gold-walled  sacristy, 
White-robed  cloistered  dwellers,  ye  hide  to  be  seen 

the  more, — 

Ye  whose  shadows  pass  across  my  shield, 
Unware  or  willing,  to  my  art  revealed. 

As  I  watch,  like  the  mist  of  a  breath  on  my  glass 

that  is  sunlit  and  clear, 
There  widens  before  me  a  vision,  a  nearing  sheaf 

of  light ; 
Beatrice  my  heart  calls  is  near, — Beatrice  has 

burst  on  my  sight. 
Whispers  have  deafening  echoes ;  distance  is  not, 

she  is  here  : 
Then,  as  I  gaze,  she  is  gone  ;  vanished  the  while 

she  smiled, 
And  instead  a  saint  is  kneeling  before  Madonna's 

child. 

My  pictured  saint  with  the  aureole, 

In  thy  passion  of  prayer  the  ages  through 
Thou  hast  never  suffered  as  mortals  do, 
Nor  ever  known  life  in  its  whole, — 
Love  nor  fear,  nor  aught  but  exaltation, 
Yet  hast  thou  shaped  the  century  of  a  nation. 

78 


Now  even  God  have  I  ventured ;  Thou,  the  greatest, 

art  to  me 
Another  such,  though  the  best,  as  is  all  the  world 

around, 
Thou  art  mine  to  paint  no  less  though  Thou  art 

a  Saviour  crowned, — 
And  the  dusk  of  the  nave  shall  glimmer  with  what 

I  have  drawn  of  Thee, 
Thou,  my  beautiful  Christ,  hanging  in  patience  and 

pain, 
Hearer  of  all  men's  prayers, — Thou  shepherd,  the 

lamb  that  was  slain. 

Yet  where  so  many  fail,  shall  I  endure  ? 

Doubt  asks  me  if  my  hope  be  not  unwise  ; 

I  hear  a  whisper  from  the  answering  skies, 
"  Enough  it  is  if  Truth  be  sure. 
Question  not,  but  keep  steady  the  glass; 
Paint  what  you  see — they  are  bidden  to  pass ." 


79 


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